


Red Satin... and a Spatula

by HDAnalyst



Series: Harry's Birthday [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday Smut, Bottom Harry, Bottoming from the Top, Boys In Love, Domestic Boyfriends, Don't Like Don't Read, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Light Bondage, M/M, No Spatulas Were Harmed in the Making of this Fic, POV First Person, Porn with Feelings, Sorry Not Sorry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Draco Malfoy, Whipped Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDAnalyst/pseuds/HDAnalyst
Summary: This is actually a continuation of my fic titled, "Pancakes and Whipped Cream." I highly recommend reading that one first, although it isn't technically necessary you may be a bit confused.Continuation of Harry's birthday festivities. Draco makes pancakes, Harry prefers muggle whipped cream, and red is a terribly garish color that Harry thinks looks fantastic on Draco.This somehow turned into a roller coaster of fluff, angst and smut and I'd like to say that I planned it but this story kind of had a mind of its own.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Harry's Birthday [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743334
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	Red Satin... and a Spatula

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bad Medicine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909259) by [playout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout). 



> Thank you to all of you who read/commented on "Pancakes and Whipped cream!" I noticed some of you asked for a sequel, so here you go! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, I simply enjoy writing about them. No copyright is intended and no money is being made from this fic.
> 
> Please checkout the fic titled, "Bad Medicine" by Playout. It is another explicit Drarry fic, and is where I first saw the phrase "A man of particular refinement" to describe Draco. I do use it in this fic, however credit must be given to the original author. It is simply put one of the most DRACO phrases I have ever read to date and I adore it<3

By the time I throw on some pants and make my way to the kitchen, I realize that for all of my talk about making pancakes being simple, I have not even an inkling as to where I should start. I don’t even know what ingredients are involved if I’m honest. The stirrings of panic set in as I realise I promised him breakfast and I outright refuse to be another person who lets him down on his birthday. 

We’re not at the Manor, so I can’t ask a house elf. My flat isn’t large enough to warrant hiring one myself. Ugh why did I insist we stay at my flat instead of Grimmauld place? At least there we have… “Kreacher!” I whisper a call, hoping beyond all hope that he can hear me due to my Black heritage. With an audible _pop_ Kreacher appears in the middle of my kitchen, and I have never in my life been more elated to see the cantankerous creature. 

“Young Master Malfoy summoned Kreacher, is Master Harry being in trouble?” The elf asked in his croaky bullfrog voice. 

“No Kreacher, Master Harry is fine. I actually summoned you because I require assistance. Would you please tell me how to make pancakes for Master Harry?” 

Kreacher simply _stared._ “Young Master Draco, wishes for Kreacher to make pancakes for Master Harry?” 

I heave a heavy sigh and try again, “No Kreacher, I wish to make Harry breakfast on his birthday and I don’t know how. I would like for you to instruct me on how to make pancakes, but I wish to make them myself.”

Kreacher begins muttering to himself, “Master Harry has a descendant of the ancient and most noble house of Black cooking like a house elf, what would mistress say? Oh the shame, the shame”

I roll my eyes at that, “Kreacher, Harry didn’t order me to make him breakfast. I want to do it. It was my idea, I offered.”

“Young Master Malfoy wants to cook for Master Harry?” 

“Yes Kreacher, I want to cook him breakfast for his birthday. He didn’t have great birthdays growing up, and I feel quite horrible about it, so I want to make every birthday he celebrates with me the best I possibly can. Harry appreciates gestures more than material gifts so I _want_ to make him pancakes.” I feel the flush creep up my face as I finish the last bit. 

“Young Master is a proper wizard, and proper wizards don’t cook, ‘tis the job of the house elf.” Kreacher grumbled. 

“Proper or not, this is what I want to do so will you help me?”

Kreacher continues grumbling, however there are no audible words until, “Kreacher usually uses flour to make Master Harry pancakes.” 

I let out a sigh of relief, because the elf seems to be begrudgingly willing to help me. I move to grab flour from the cupboard when I hear Kreacher continue, “Kreacher also uses salt, baking powder, sugar, milk, eggs and butter for Master Harry’s pancakes.”

It continues like this until I’ve accumulated all of the necessary ingredients. Kreacher even takes the time to go back to Grimmauld place to retrieve the necessary equipment I’ll require, he mentioned something about a fry pan and some mad thing called a SPA-TOOLA, two terms I have never heard before in my life. 

Kreacher barks utterances at me under his breath until I’ve created a lumpy liquid concoction of sorts. Looks sort of like a pale batch of polyjuice gone wrong if I’m honest. Kreacher instructs me to heat the pan over medium high heat, and then when he realizes I have no idea how to use the stove, he shows me how to adjust it to the correct setting. 

It’s almost agonizing waiting for the pan to heat, but eventually Kreacher tells me, “Master can scoop a small amount of butter into the pan now.” I do as I am bid, and I realize belatedly that I’m putting a lot of faith into this old, decrepit, creature. He could be steering me in the complete wrong direction without me knowing. This immediately puts me on edge. It’s not in my Slytherin nature to trust anyone, let alone a house elf I have little experience with, although Harry says that Kreacher is always waxing poetic about me and my “proper wizard” ways. Not as if I have another choice really, here’s hoping he is instructing me properly. 

Once the butter is melted, Kreacher demonstrates how to measure out the proper amount of what he termed “batter” into the hot pan. I repeat the procedure twice until there are three circular, bland, blobs in the pan. Kreacher doesn’t give me any further instructions for a while, and I’m starting to get nervous that they’re going to burn, but once I notice the entire surface of each of the blobs covered in small visible bubbles, I hear Kreacher croak, “Kreacher must flip the pancakes now Master Draco,” while he beckons silently for the SPA-TOOLA thing in my hand. 

I hand it to him, but reply in kind, “Only one Kreacher. I wish to do the rest.” 

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. I watch him take the SPA-TOOLA thingy and slide it under the pale bubbling blob. Then to my absolute horror he lifts it out of the pan! I’m about to scream ‘Kreacher _stop!_ ’ But before I can utter a syllable he flips the blob over into the pan with the bubble side down. To my utter astonishment the blob now looks like a pancake! It’s golden brown the exact shade a pancake should be. 

I hurriedly use the SPA-TOOLA to flip over the other two blobs and sure enough they look like pancakes too! Grinning, I turn toward Kreacher and say, “They look like pancakes! Are they done? Can I bring them to Harry now?”

Kreacher looks irritated and insists, “Young Master Malfoy must learn patience, pancakes are only cooked on the top side, not the bottom side.” 

Oh, I guess that makes sense considering the bubbly side was still gloppy when I flipped them over. I nod solemnly and wait for further instruction. It seems like no time at all has passed when Kreacher says, “Master Malfoy can put pancakes on a plate for Master Harry now.” 

Immediately I grab for the SPA-TOOLA and scoop them out of the pan and lay them in a slightly lopsided stack. I am beyond proud of myself for actually doing it correctly that I turn to tell Kreacher he can leave, but instead Kreacher has placed more butter in the pan and is making more pancakes with the leftover batter. 

Indignant, I turn to yell but Kreacher stops me, “You wanted to make pancakes for Master Harry, you have done what you asked of poor old Kreacher. Kreacher will continue making more pancakes for young Master Malfoy as ‘tis what is proper.” And brooking no argument, Kreacher turned back to the hob and busied himself with the fry pan and SPA-TOOLA. 

Shaking my head at the antics and the unbridled stubbornness, I remember that Harry had asked for whipped cream. “Kreacher, Harry requested whipped cream on his pancakes, do we have any?”

Without responding, Kreacher waves his hand over the hot pan to cast a stasis charm, and ambles away from the stove mumbling audibly about, “cream in a can” and “muggles being daft.” I can’t even begin to fathom what is happening, but Kreacher disappears with a loud crack, and almost immediately returns with a metal canister fitted with a red cap. “Master Harry prefers muggle whipped cream.” Kreacher grumbles. “He doesn’t like Kreacher to make proper whipped cream.” 

I can tell this is a bone of contention so I opt not to mention anything further. I place the pancakes and the can of what Kreacher indicated was whipped cream on the table, and cast a stasis charm on the pancakes to keep them hot. “Thank you Kreacher, I really appreciate you helping me make Master Harry’s birthday special. Feel free to take any leftover food for yourself. I am going to fetch Harry now.”

Kreacher nods as I enter the corridor and head back to my room. Upon entering, I notice that Harry is curled up under the blanket, with his eyes closed, still wearing his glasses which are lopsidedly perched on the end of his nose, seemingly asleep. I suppress a grin and I clear my throat to get his attention, “As per your culinary request, your plebeian breakfast is in fact suitable for consumption”

He sits up abruptly and gapes at me incredulously, “You made me pancakes, like...ACTUAL edible pancakes?” I thought you were in the shower all this time?!”

“You wound me Potter. Here I was slaving away like a bloody house elf...” but I’m cut off with a kiss. Can it even be called a kiss if the giver is smiling from ear to ear? “You made me breakfast. Thank you. No one but Molly or Kreacher has ever made me breakfast before.” 

“Well, you’ve never had someone who appreciates the finer things in life to bestow said luxuries upon you.”

He laughs lowly, “I guess you’re right. I hope you didn’t forget the whipped cream!”

The grin on his face is downright filthy. “Merlin’s pants you’re insatiable. Come, breakfast awaits.” He grabs a pair of pants and hurries into them as we head down the corridor back to the kitchen, and I’m grateful that Kreacher didn’t linger. 

Harry sits down next to his plate and his entire face is lit up with pure, unadulterated happiness. It’s bittersweet seeing him like this if I’m honest. Something as simple as pancakes shouldn’t be a rarity and yet, someone as generous as Harry has horrible baggage from the time he lived with those muggle monsters. I may not know the whole truth so early into our relationship, but I’ve surmised enough to know that his aunt and uncle deserve harsher punishment than they’ll ever receive. 

Turning my attention back to Harry, I can’t help mirroring his infectious grin as he pours maple syrup and uses the absurd can to twist a huge dollop of cream on top of his stack. I’ve also noticed that Harry insists on adding an abundance of things he really enjoys to his plate. It’s as though he fears he will never have it again so he has to get as much as he possibly can while he’s able. Again, this nauseates me, because it is a clear indication that at some point he was food insecure. 

And cue the guilt. Fuck, but I look back at my adolescent self and can’t help but loathe him. So proud, and selfish I was. Harry is constantly reminding me that I couldn’t really help it at the time because I was essentially conditioned to behave that way. I can’t help but feel that this is a cop out, However, I love him for seeing the good in me, not that I’ve told him as much. Salazar this relationship is still so tentative I’d probably scare him off If I had. I shake my head in an attempt to clear the spiraling thoughts. It wouldn’t do to go fucking up his birthday with my self deprecating nonsense. 

I begin eating my own stack of pancakes, I notice Kreacher put fresh berries on mine to better suit my tastes. I smile to myself, perhaps I’ll send Kreacher a gift for helping me out today. I wouldn’t have been able to make Harry smile like that on my own. 

We eat in companionable silence until Harry starts, “I gotta be honest Draco, those were incredible, but how did you know that I prefer muggle whipped cream? The more I think about it, the odder it seems. I’ve never had whipped cream in your presence before, nor do you shop at muggle food markets.” 

I feel my face heating, and my palms start to sweat. Merlin it’s times like these I swear Harry could’ve been a fucking Slytherin. “Erm, well…” great now I’m stumbling over my words. 

Harry gapes at me, “Did you just say erm?!” 

I let out a huff of exasperation, “Yes you and your bloody inarticulate tendencies are apparently starting to rub off on me.” He simply smirks at that, he knows that I resort to petty insults as a deflection tactic. Snake hiding in a lion’s body I swear to Merlin.

I look over into his face full of insecurity. It’s clear he is worried that I lied about making breakfast, and he thinks I simply pity him. I can’t bear to see that lost crup expression for another second, so I cut to the chase, “If you must know, I was unaware of the proper pancake prepping procedure, so I called for Kreacher and he instructed me on how to make them, but I did make them myself, I promise. I used the SPA-TOOLA and everything. Kreacher brought over the muggle whipped cream from Grimmauld place.” 

I turn my gaze to the floor because I can’t see the disappointment there. I've seen it for most of my life and I can’t handle seeing disappointment from him, not anymore. He seems to silently mull it over for a few moments, but I refuse to look him in the eye. Suddenly he’s on his knees on the floor to my left and taking both of my hands in his. I still won’t meet his eyes so he lifts our joined hands and turns my face gently in his direction until grey eyes meet green. 

His eyes are actually wet, fuck I made him cry! I’m the worst boyfriend ever. I can’t even make breakfast right, I made him cry on his birthday I- “Draco, you wanted to make me breakfast so badly that you called Kreacher to show you how?!” He all but whispers incredulously, abruptly cutting off my pity party. 

“Yes, I-well I wanted to cook breakfast for you because you mentioned having to cook breakfast for your cousin when you were a child, and I knew that he never returned the favor, and you were probably lucky to get cereal on your birthday for years so I…” I’m cut off again with a lap full of silently sobbing savior, and I’m completely flabbergasted. “Harry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just couldn’t find a recipe anywhere and had no idea where to even start. I’ve never even heard of a SPA-TOOLA before today.” 

He starts to laugh at that, I can feel his arms trembling around my neck. He leans back and scrubs a hand across his face in a poor attempt to dry his tears and says, “I’m not upset, I’m touched beyond belief that you would actually take the time to learn how to make pancakes from Kreacher just to make me breakfast. He doesn’t have the sunniest disposition on a good day.” He leans in and places a soft watery kiss on the right corner of my mouth. “Thank you, this is by far the best birthday I’ve ever had,” he says watching me with watery eyes. 

I swallow hard, I am in uncharted territory here, as I don’t handle emotional outbursts well. I settle for feigned indifference and superiority, “Well, naturally you’d receive nothing but the best from a man of particular refinement such as myself.” 

He laughs outright again and eyes glittering playfully says, “Well, perhaps a self proclaimed man of particular refinement should be aware that the tool used for flipping pancakes is called a spatula not a SPA-TOOLA.” He cracks up at that, and I’m tempted to push him off my lap but his laughter is a glorious change from the tears of a few moments ago so I join him instead. 

I can’t even begin to describe how incredible moments like these are for me. Something as simple as laughing with Harry can lift my mood for the rest of the day. I know deep down that I’ve wanted this for far longer than I’m willing to admit to anyone, and having it is still so surreal. 

As our laughter dies down, Harry leans forward, drapes his arms over my shoulders and runs one hand through the cropped hair at the nape of my neck. The resulting grin that splits my face is completely involuntary, as I run my hands lightly up his sides and simply relish in the proximity. 

Predictably, Harry is incapable of keeping his touching entirely platonic for long. I feel him run his hands down the line of my jaw and onto my neck which causes an involuntary shiver on my part. I can almost feel the smirk on his face as he begins to nuzzle his chin stubble into the crook of my neck to begin mouthing at the sensitive skin there. 

He runs his hands lower over my shoulders, and trails them down my arms. I submit to the sensations completely closing my eyes and tilting my head back to grant him more access to my neck. I feel his hands everywhere, my arms, my chest, my ankles, my thighs and I can’t suppress the breathy moan that escapes my lips. 

His touch is uncharacteristically soft as it continues its path up each of my legs and both my arms simultaneously. Wait, what the fuck he’s only got two hands. I open my eyes just in time to see a bright Gryffindor red satin ribbon sliding over my pale skin. The bastard seems to have wandlessly conjured a ribbon which is currently sliding over my body in a hilarious imitation of Devil’s snare. The ribbon’s tendrils have already spiraled up my extremities, and are now sliding over my scarred chest essentially binding me to the kitchen chair. As the ribbon stops sliding and jerks my wrists together behind me with a sharp tug, I splutter indignantly. However, before I can utter a single syllable, Harry presses his mouth to mine in a downright filthy interpretation of a kiss. 

Distractedly, I recognize that the cool, smooth ribbon has resumed it’s creeping and is now inching further upward over my shoulders, twisting gently around my neck, and settling on the top of my head. Harry leans back to look at his handiwork, and the filthy grin that lights up his face causes my cock to twitch in the confines of my rapidly tightening pants. 

“Happy with yourself are you?” I reply, my voice dripping with thinly veiled faux disdain. 

He runs his hands over my skin almost reverently, “You sir are a filthy, rotten, liar. Red looks utterly incredible on you. Brings out the blue in your eyes and the pink in your skin.”

My face heats scarlet, so I scoff and add indignantly, “Bloody Gryffindor, the color is way too garish and overstated to complement my aristocratic complexion. You clearly have horrible taste in hues.”

He chuckles again, “No, you’re just too stubborn to admit that Gryffindor colors suit you you wanker. I can even admit to enjoying the sight of you with a bright red ribbon on your head. Although that may be due to the fact that you’re completely at my mercy as opposed to the actual binding material.” He adds in a throaty whisper against my neck. 

“And just what do you plan to do about that Potter?” I retort with a challenging look and a raised eyebrow. 

His eyes darken immediately as he leans in to whisper softly in my ear, “Happy Birthday to me indeed.” That’s all the warning I get before he silently banishes my pants leaving me completely starkers. He then licks his lips and holds out his right hand expectantly. I look down at the outstretched hand, and I’m about to inquire as to what he is waiting for when I see the container of muggle whipped cream come flying off the table and settling in his palm. 

Unbidden, a moan escapes my lips. Leave it to this arsehole to master casting wandless summoning spells, as if the majority of wizards cast wandlessly on a daily basis. His constant displays leave me hard and aching on a regular basis and the bloody wanker is completely aware of this. His gaze darkens and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smug fucking smirk. Git needs to stop stealing my fucking trademark, thank you. 

I turn my attention to the can of cream then, as the anticipation of what Harry is planning finally registers in my lust riddled brain. He seems to understand the direction to which my thoughts have drifted because he says in an embarrassingly accurate drawl not unlike mine, “You see, the benefit of using the whipped cream in the can is the precision of application. I can place it exactly where I want it.” He then tips my head to my left and trails a line of whipped cream from my right shoulder over my collar bone, and up the line of my neck, ending right behind my ear. I shiver with anticipation because _fuck_ who ever would’ve thought being covered in whipped cream could be this filthy.

He seems to relish in making me wait because he doesn’t immediately lean in to lick off the cream, he simply takes his bottom lip between his teeth and _stares_. It’s almost as if one of his more filthy desires is being played out and he wants to prolong it. He all but growls, “Look at you, utterly delicious.” Without any further warning he leans in and licks over the trail of cream, starting at my shoulder and ending at the base of my neck. “Fuck you taste incredible,” he mutters sotto voce. 

I can’t hold in the mortifying whimper that escapes me, but it simply seems to spur him on. He resumes his task of lapping at the whipped cream that he so expertly trailed up my neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck he’s driving me mental with the tiny kitten licks trailing from the base of my neck to just behind my ear. Over and over making sure not to leave a square millimetre of skin untouched. I’m moaning audibly now, as he has essentially succeeded in reducing me to a pile of pure want and need. He leans in one last time to leave an open mouthed kiss on my neck before unceremoniously lifting off of my lap and kneeling on the floor. 

The sight of Harry Potter on his knees, with his face less than a metre from my cock, might possibly supersede any other vision I’ve encountered in my relatively short life. His beautiful green eyes staring up at me through dark lashes, a coy, playful grin on his face, it nearly suffocates me with desire. But then, the grin fades into a guilt ridden, sullen expression. At first I’m nonplussed as to what’s caused the drastic change in demeanor, however seeing where his gaze has landed answers the question before it leaves my mouth. 

The scars. The scars Snape couldn’t heal no matter how much of the horrible smelling dittany he poured over the oozing wounds. The scars that were once bright angry red had faded over the years to palest white only a shade or two lighter than my skin. The scars that I caused when I opened my mouth to cast the cruciatus curse on the one person I was hoping would save me, and yet instead he marked me, permanently, not unlike someone else I know. The scars that caused pain and anguish on the man in front of me the moment he saw what he’d done. The scars he never meant to leave. The scars that held the deepest of my secrets in that I cherished them, as they meant I’d always have a piece of the boy I thought I could never have, not really. The scars that brought said man to his knees in tears the first time he saw them five months ago at Grimmauld Place. The scars that had him sobbing against my chest begging for forgiveness as if he truly didn’t believe I’d already forgiven him. The scars that he insists on atoning for every chance he gets. The scars that he claims are his life’s biggest regret, and yet they’re one of my greatest treasures. The scars that are causing him to fight back tears on his birthday. The scars that remind me on a daily basis that I survived. The scars that give me strength to prevail, and yet the scars only remind him of his ability to fail. 

It’s time to put an end to the spiraling thoughts I see flitting across his face. “Harry, please, don’t…”

He shakes his head as if willing it to clear, and leans down at the corner of the largest scar and plants the softest kiss imaginable. He does this often, as if every kiss is a silent apology. “You’re beautiful. I don’t hate them, I hate myself for making you imperfect. Yet…you’re imperfections enhance your beauty, because they are visible proof that you’re a survivor. I admire you for them, all of them.”

It’s rare that I’m at a loss for words but I truly have no idea what I should say back. I decide to bring him back to the present, both literally and figuratively. “Alright you great sap, perhaps you should continue opening your gift, hmm? No use wasting perfectly healthy elections because of your Gryffindor tendency toward nobility. Suck it up, and suck me off you wanker” I say with a playful smirk. 

He laughs outright at that, wiping his eyes again with the back of his hand, “And what a lovely present it is!” As he grabs around on the floor in search of the whipped cream can. “Trust me Love, I haven’t finished with you yet.” 

The term of endearment slides out of his mouth so effortlessly as though he’s been saying it his whole life, and yet it throws me completely off kilter. How one simple utterance can cause a near full blown panic is beyond me, but my heart is pounding and the blood is rushing in my ears because Harry fucking Potter just called me “Love.” I begin to ponder what my 13-year-old self would think if he was told that one day Harry Potter would refer to him as ‘love,’ but before I can delve any further into that train of thought, I’m ripped from my absurd reverie as Harry is again drawing lines with the whipped cream up the inside of my thighs from knee to groin. 

He hastens to lick up the cream this time, and my thighs tremble as they are bound to the chair and bidden to receive the onslaught. On the last lick to my left thigh I jerk uncontrollably, causing him to laugh throatily. “Eager are we? Where shall I devote my attention to next hmm?” He asks with a wry grin. 

I’m horrifyingly breathless when I retort, “It’s your birthday, I suppose you’re entitled to make that decision for yourself. Also considering you’ve hindered my movement you’re free to do whatever you please, as you already know, git.” Salazar help me. How Harry never ended up a bloody Slytherin I’ll never know. 

“Mmmm yes, I must say you make quite a pretty picture all wrapped up for me. Especially when you’re making those lovely little sounds.” He murmurs, and without preamble, he leans in to run his tongue up the underside of my cock, balls to tip with no warning whatsoever. Suppressing the pathetic whine this elicits is futile. He chuckles to himself. 

He takes great personal pleasure in forcing such noises from me, it’s a twisted thrill for him I cannot understand, yet he catches me off guard from time to time. I hate it… I love it. “is that all you got Potter?!” I squeak out in the most undignified manner. 

“I’m just getting started, Malfoy.” He says in a deadly serious tone, and without another syllable he leans in and drags his tongue up the length of my cock again, only slower, more torturous. He’s such a fucking tease, always prolonging the moment when he finally takes my into his mouth. 

Although, I know why he does it if I’m honest. He drags out the build up because he has yet to master the main event. I smirk to myself at that. Him and his absurd Gryffindor nobility actually gets jealous of the fact that I am more skilled in the blowjob department. It drives him absolutely mad that he still can’t take the full length of me into his throat. You’d think that seeing as how he is the one reaping the benefits of my talents he wouldn’t mind, but OH NO, boy wonder here is downright ticked off that I finally bested him at something. 

It has to be said that I never let him forget it, but that’s neither here nor there I think to myself with a downright filthy smirk. He is still mouthing at the underside of my cock at this point, but seems to see me all but grinning to myself. He takes notice and looks up at me with inquiring eyes and says, “What are you smirking about up there hmm?” 

I reply with one of my deliberately false laughs that always manages to incense him, “Oh just the usual. You know, the fact that you’re procrastinating is quite charming really. I never took you as one to back down from a challenge though Potter.” I peer down my nose at him with a smug face and a raised eyebrow. 

Predictably he takes the bait, “Sod off Malfoy, I never back down from a challenge.” And with that he _finally_ leans in and takes the head of my cock between his lips. I let out an audible groan, as he slides lower, and lower getting closer and closer to completely engulfing me in his mouth. I begin to feel the constriction of his throat on the tip of my cock and anticipate the tell tale clench of his gag reflex. It doesn’t come because he quickly pulls back with a hard suck and an audible slurp, “You think you’re so clever don’t you Malfoy. Think you can manipulate me into doing exactly what it is you want. Nice try, but I think you’re forgetting who is in charge here.”

He leans in and places another extremely gently kiss on another one of my scars and then gets to his feet. His cock is rock hard and inches from my face. At this point I’m hard as fucking granite and having his cock inches from my mouth causes immediate salivation. I’m half convinced that he’s seconds away from sliding it in my mouth over my tongue, therefore I lean forward and attempt to lick the bead of pre-come that’s attempting to dribble down his shaft, but surprisingly, he simply chuckles and moves his hips away. 

I’m honestly dumbfounded at this point because I have no inclination as to what he’s planning. It makes me feel slightly wrong footed to tell the truth. I watch him warily, however he simply smiles at me, proceeds to sit in my lap, and presses an unbelievably chaste kiss on my lips. He pulls back and smiles at me so I return it 10-fold. 

The look he grants me in return is one I won’t soon forget. He looks at me as though I am precious, as though I mean the absolute world to him and it leaves my throat feeling as arid as the Sahara. He moves upward minutely and grasps onto my cock. The sudden shift is so unexpected that it elicits a moan and inadvertently causes me to avert my gaze toward the ceiling. 

Before I fully realize what is happening, I feel intense pressure around the head of my cock, as he leans in and resumes mouthing at my exposed neck. The resultant whine echoes through the kitchen, and elicits a chuckle from the bloody Gryffindor slowly impaling himself on my cock without warning. 

“Fuck Harry what are you…FUCK!” He’s halfway down and the tightness is literally taking my breath away. I find myself gasping for air as I manage to grit out, “Harry… Fuck… a little warning… Merlin so tight… I thought you said… you never… Salazar you’re trying to kill me.” Finally he’s seated himself firmly on my lap, my entire cock buried inside him to the hilt, an entirely new sensation because the bloody wanker insists he’s never bottomed before. 

Anger begins to surface now he’s stopped moving, “What they actual fuck Potter? Reckless bloody Gryffindor, did you even prepare yourself?! Merlin and Morgana who decides to impale themselves the first time as a bottom are you fucking mental?!” The last part comes out as a squeak because he deliberately clenches around me in an effort to cut me off. 

“Me.” He says simply, the smug wanker as if this is an everyday occurrence. Not even wondering at the fact that I’m freaking the fuck out because I’m balls deep in Harry fucking Potter’s arse right now and it’s taking every ounce of willpower to prevent myself from coming. Fuck this is something I never actually anticipated coming to fruition, but now that it has I never want it to end. 

“I’d move but someone in their absolute brilliance has _bound me to the bloody chair_.” 

He doesn’t respond, instead he rolls his hips forward dragging the underside of his cock along my abs. The view of his leaking erection dragging over my abdomen and leaving a trail of pre-come on me, causes my thighs to begin trembling. Fuck, nothing could’ve prepared me for this. He continues the motion back and forth at an almost torturous pace, each drag of his steadily leaking cock making my stomach glisten obscenely with sticky fluid. 

I’m just about to tell him that I can’t take this anymore, but before I get out more than, “Harry…” he's straightens his legs, successfully lifting himself up so that only the head of my cock is still inside him, and drops back down so suddenly that my body jerks as if to close in on itself. “Salazar, FUCK!” I manage to grit out before he begins riding me as though his life depends on it. 

The slick slide makes obscene squelching noises that only make it harder to concentrate on the task at hand. Although admittedly, I am unable to do much of anything, bound as I am by this horrendous ribbon. I turn my attention instead to my cock sinking repeatedly inside Harry, a sight I never in my wildest fantasies dared to think I’d ever have the privilege to see. I find I need to close my eyes because the onslaught of images is bringing me dangerously close to coming, which of course I’m wont to do. 

He seems to understand because he stops bobbing up and down, and adjusts his position. He leans back with his left hand on my right knee, his right hand on my left shoulder. He then begins grinding into me again with his head thrown back in ecstasy. He seems to have found the angle that presses my cock against his prostate because he cries out, “What the fuck was that?!” 

The question causes me to laugh unexpectedly, “That would be your prostate Potter. Tiny organ at the base of your cock that when stimulated releases copious amounts of fluid into your…” 

“Fuck, shut up shut up! You’re just making it worse.” He says on a loud moan. 

I laugh outright at that, “Leave it to you to be turned on by a technical explanation of prostate stimulation…” 

He groans again, and I can’t stifle the laughter that continues to emerge. “It’s not the words it’s your fucking posh voice, you wanker.”

“No need for wanking when I have you lovingly stroking my cock with your arsehole.” 

He whines at that, “Fuck that’s definitely worse.”

“You going to come for me Harry? You going to come on my cock?” 

Another whine, “Draco, I need… My cock…” 

“I can’t touch you if you don’t release my hands Harry.”

He reaches for the bow on top of my head and pulls hard on one of the tails to loosen the ribbon, and immediately my hands are released from their bonds. My hands rush to his hips, and I start pulling him down onto my cock in a punishing rhythm. “Touch yourself Harry, I want to see you touch yourself.”

He moans but begins stroking himself in time with my thrusts. I know I’m not going to last long, so I continue talking to him, “ That’s it Harry, you feel the pressure at the base of your cock?” He nods, “Look at me.” He does but doesn’t stop stroking himself, “You’re going to come so hard Harry, all you have to do is let go, come for me Harry.” 

Finally, I feel the telltale vice like grip of his orgasm trigger, and watch as streaks of come fly out of his cock and land on my chest. I try to ride it out, but the rhythmic clenching on my cock tips me over, and I’m spilling inside him mere seconds after the first drop of his come splashes near my chin. 

Panting and with blurred vision, I begin mumbling unintelligibly, “Barking. Absolutely mental. No warning. Bloody wanker. He’ll be the death of me.”

Dimly, I hear Harry chuckling in the background, “Perhaps spending so much time with Kreacher was ill advised. I can hear your mumbled diatribe ya know.”

I’m still a bit breathless when I reply “I meant you to hear you reckless bastard.” Therefore the bite in my words is lost as he simply smiles at me. 

“Aww, you’re brilliant at pillow talk Love.” He looks at me and playfully bats his eyes.

And there it is again, the profound sentiment that makes my heart skip several beats. I turn to look at him properly now that I have some blood being directed back toward my brain. There’s no trace of regret, not even a slight twinge of insincerity in his expression and it’s terrifying. I war with myself internally deciding whether I should bring it up, or write it off as a heat of the moment thing. Before I even open my mouth to respond he lifts up off my lap, lazily waves his hand to vanish the remaining mess, and looks me dead in the eye, “You don’t have to look so terrified you know.” He finishes with a wan smile. 

“It’s just, I erm… don’t know if you realize… said it twice… wasn’t sure if you… meant it for me.” I finish lamely.

Perplexed, he raises an eyebrow, “Who else would I be talking to? There’s no one else here…” He trails off looking vulnerable and fairly disappointed. 

“I, no one has ever called me that before. I never thought…” and fuck my traitorous lacrimal ducts are filling rapidly, and my chest is constricting as I try with all my might to prevent the unbidden tears from giving me away completely. I feel exposed and angry at myself for letting the tears come. 

I’m seconds away from pushing him off my lap and hiding in the bedroom, but before I get the chance he says, “Draco, Love, please look at me.” Hearing it again is my breaking point and I clench my eyes shut and let the tears fall as I turn my face toward the ground. 

I feel trembling hands gently grip the sides of my face and tilt my head upward to look at him, but I stubbornly keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see pity there, and I sure as shite don’t want to see any judgement for my ill advised moment of vulnerability. I try to turn my head to the side to escape the scrutiny I know he’s bestowing upon me, but he prevents it. “Draco, it’s okay just please open your eyes hmm?” 

His tone is surprisingly light, and without malice of any sort. He sounds, he sounds as though he’s smiling, as if my torment is making him… dare I say it happy. The tone of his voice sets off an incensed tirade in my mind. How dare he laugh at me when I’m at my most vulnerable, how dare he find joy in my misery. I wrench my eyes open indignantly and am about to give him a piece of my mind but upon seeing his face the words seem to fade away. 

“You have no idea, you really have no idea…” he says in a choked up voice. I still have no idea what he’s on about so I simply wait for him to continue, “Draco, have you really convinced yourself that you aren’t worthy of love? Do you truly deep down believe that there’s no possible way someone, could actually love you for the person you’ve become? For the person you are?” 

Well fuck, cut right to the fucking heart of my insecurity why doesn’t he, wanker. I don’t really have a response to that because he seems to already have figured it out. I simply shrug and lift my chin in a defiant manner, silently daring him to contradict me. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. It’s looking as though he is contemplating his next words extremely carefully, as though he’s desperately trying not to fuck up. My heart melts a little at that because I know I can be a prickly bastard at the best of times. I am wholly unprepared however, for him to smile at me and say with utmost sincerity, “I love you, Draco.”

My heart stops beating and the reality of what he just said crashes into me in an instant. My immediate response is to scream at the top of my voice that he’s lying, and trying to make a fool out of me. 

I feel the sneer slowly forming on my face, but apparently he’s not done, because he hurries to continue, “I know what you’re thinking you know. I can see it on your face. You think I’m lying. You think I’m playing a cruel prank on you because it couldn’t possibly be true that someone, especially someone like me, could ever fall in love with the likes of you. You’re wrong you know.” 

Utterly flabbergasted, I turn my shocked expression back to look at him, “I…”

“You what Draco? You’re surprised that I can read you? When I’ve been doing just that since we’re about eleven? You can’t believe that something good is happening to you because then you must be dreaming? What is it?”

There are no words, none whatsoever. I have literally no response for him. I simply stare wide eyed, mouth gaping at the fact that he is actually correct. I don’t think I deserve for anyone to claim they love me, let alone the bloody saviour of the wizarding world. Actually it just makes me feel worse because the way he is presenting it, I’m not only being self-deprecating, but also underestimating him which leaves me feeling raw, and like the biggest prick to walk the planet. 

He seems to understand the direction my thoughts are spiraling because rather than continue angrily, he walks forward and kneels in front of me, and takes my hands in his again. “You’re under the false impression that I don’t know you Draco. You think that I don’t see you, but I do. I see a man that despite making poor life choices as an adolescent, he learned from his mistakes and is stronger for it. I see a man that is loyal and will do anything in his power to protect the people he loves. I see a man that found strength enough to take his worst life experiences and turn it so far around that he’s actually attended muggle university for four years in an effort to distance himself from the stigma forced upon him as a child.” 

The tears have returned. I blink to release them from my lashes and they streak silently down my face leaving wet trails behind in their wake. He reaches up and gently wipes them away, and yet I can’t bear to look at him. I can’t bear to hear the things he is saying because they seem to be taken completely out of context. I had to save my mother, I couldn’t let that noseless bastard take away the one person who always found it within themselves to love me for me, even if she never said it outright. I was forced to attend muggle university for two years as a stipulation of my probation. I was hardly going to stop when I was halfway to graduation. The way he paints it, isn’t the full truth. 

I have half a mind to reiterate this but he stops me, “You don’t get to say that you were forced to go to muggle university due to probation because while you were required to attend for two years you did not have to graduate with honors and go on to use your knowledge to revolutionize modern healing techniques. You didn’t have to find a way to introduce wizarding remedies for cancer into the muggle world without breaking the statute of secrecy, but you did. You may argue that it was just repenting, but you still did it and saved countless lives as a result.” 

I find myself without argument. I truly cannot argue with his logic at this point, but I still don’t know why he thinks this erases all of the truly horrible things about my past. Those acts are punishable for a lifetime, “I don’t deserve a happily ever after.” I realise belatedly that the last part was actually said aloud. 

“First of all, that's bollocks. Second of all, what about me Draco, do I deserve a happily ever after? Because you’re it for me.” He looks up at me then, and I want to punch him because that’s so fucking unfair. 

I scoff audibly and retort, “Of course you do, if anyone deserves their happily ever after it’s you. But, I can’t give you everything you need Potter. I can’t give you a traditional family, I can’t give you a life without constant worry about your significant other. Any potential life we’d have together would be forever tainted by my past mistakes, and that, I am certain, you truly don‘t deserve.” I trail off pathetically at the end because it pains me to verbalize it. It’s one thing to keep it hidden deep in the recesses of my mind, but vocalizing it makes it more real somehow. 

“What if those are infinitesimally small prices to pay for living with the person that makes me the best version of myself, hmm? What if I want to overlook those extremely irrelevant things because I finally found the person that appreciates me for who I actually am. You have no idea how much it means to me that you never saw me as anything other than Harry. To you, I’m just Harry. Not ‘Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World,’ not ‘The Chosen One,’ not ‘The Boy Who Lived.’ You see me for me, and that is by far the absolute best thing anyone has ever given me. You see the broken boy who grew up without knowing love. You see the reckless behavior for what it truly is, a lack of perspective because I never had anyone to tether me to reality, and make me see the true consequences of my actions. You see me, a mediocre, run of the mill, four-eyed disaster and you still look at me as though… as though you love me back.”

I roll my eyes at that, “No boyfriend of mine has ever been called mediocre Potter. I get the point you’re trying to make but seriously?! You’re far from mediocre and to say such things implies I have terrible taste, which I clearly do not.” He laughs outright as tears stream down his face again. I strengthen my resolve and ask the question I’m dying to know the answer to, “How can you be so willing to throw away everything you’ve ever wanted just to be with me?

“Don't you see? I don’t feel as though I am throwing anything away Draco, I feel as though everything I thought I wanted is trivial compared to how I feel when I’m with you. We can still have a family. To hell with tradition, I only want a family with you. Nothing would make me happier. I want my kids to grow up in a household where I’m just a boring old dad who snores on the sofa with his glasses lopsided. I don’t want any children of mine being brought up to think that I’m some hero and have them live in my shadow. I want to be with you Draco, because when I’m with you I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. If I trip over my open shoe laces, you’re likely to laugh at my expense not rush over to coddle me with, ‘oh no mister Potter’ or ‘are you okay mister Potter?’”

“So you want to be with me because I laugh at you when you do dumb things?” I ask incredulously.

“That’s such a small part of it. You laugh when I do dumb things because to you I’m just another person, a human, capable of making normal mundane mistakes. Not some untouchable being that people feel the need to revere even though I haven’t done anything noteworthy since I’m seventeen years old. You always did though. You were the only person to ever call me out on my shit even when we were kids. ‘Saint Potter, with his scar, and his broomstick,’” he imitates my adolescent self with frightening accuracy. 

“You always managed to make me feel ordinary, and that means way more to me than dealing with your past mistakes or constantly having to worry about you. It’s me you’re talking about. I'd worry about you anyway, also you’re more than capable of handling yourself, you know this.” He ends with a shy smile. 

“I can’t help but feel that I’m going to constantly disappoint you.” I blurt out unexpectedly. 

He simply smiles again as he replies, “Don’t you think I worry about the same thing in regards to you?! Have you met you? You are insanely hard to please. I’m constantly afraid that If I wear the wrong pants you’ll be disappointed.” He chuckles, “You can’t live your life in fear forever Draco, happiness comes with a little bit of risk. You simply have to find the person for whom the risk is worth taking.” 

I look at him then, and his expression is so soft and genuine, that I find myself unable to find any more excuses. I find myself inexplicably climbing down off the chair and kneeling in front of him, still holding both of his hands in mine. I take in a shaky breath and look directly at him as I’m about to say the words I’ve been repressing for years if I’m truly honest with myself. The words I fear saying above all others, the words that have never really been spoken aloud to me by anyone, save the man in front of me a few moments ago. The words that want to spring free whenever I’m in his presence. The words I never thought I’d ever have the courage to say, “I Love you too.” 

For a second he simply gapes at me, and then, laughing, he all but launches himself at me and we tumble backwards onto the ground. As my head hits the ground with a ‘thud,’ I begin to give him a piece of my mind, “Ouc-” but I’m cut off by a pair of lips being pressed forcefully to mine. 

He pulls away then reluctantly, “I’m sorry, fuck I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” and he’s kissing me again, but this time I feel the telltale wetness of tears on my cheeks and I know they aren’t coming from me this time. 

“You great sap, you’re making me feel like the worst boyfriend on the planet with all the waterworks you know. What kind of arsehole makes their boyfriend cry multiple times on their birthday, I ask you?” 

“The best kind.” He replies simply. “I gotta say, I’ll be interested to see how you top this one next year. You basically just solidified first place in the best birthday ever competition.” 

My trademark smirk slides right into place on my face where it belongs, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head Potter. I plan on keeping my first place status until the day I die.” 

“Always with the dramatics!” He says on a laugh. “It’ll be quite a challenge to one up yourself every year you know. I’m not sure I can handle being surprised like this every year.” 

I look at him with a raised eyebrow as though appraising him, “Scared Potter? I never thought I’d see the day.” 

He chuckles again, grabs me by the waist and unceremoniously drags me to sit on his lap, our faces inches apart, “You wish Malfoy.” And after bestowing me with one last radiant smile, he leans in to mouth at my neck yet again. 

A groan escapes me yet again, “Bloody insatiable wanker.”

“Hey! It’s my birthday, and I want to enjoy my present!” He says as his hands trail down over my back and settle on the top of my arse. 

I reach over behind the chair, and in faux resignation, grab the utterly garish red bow and place it precariously on the top of my head. “Never let it be said that I don’t make sacrifices for those that I love.” 

He beams at me again and says, “Can’t really be considered a sacrifice if the colour actually suits you, git.”

“Yea well don’t get used to it, I will not be making it a habit to wear this horrid colour, regardless of what you say about it highlighting my best features.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He says with a smile and proceeds to slip his hands over my hips and down my thighs. . 

I smile back, relishing in the attention, “Happy Birthday Harry.”

“Happy Birthday Indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! 
> 
> Comments/Kudos = Happiness so I would love to hear from you!
> 
> Kind criticism is welcome as I am a new writer! Thanks again for reading!!


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